


the weight

by cowboylakay



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: M/M, Meltdown, so it goes in the tag, sorry :(, this is vague but i wrote this about jabed, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29397972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboylakay/pseuds/cowboylakay
Summary: content warning for meltdowns. based off a similar experience
Relationships: Abed Nadir/Jeff Winger
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	the weight

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for meltdowns. based off a similar experience

The world, manifested as guilt, swallows him whole.

The feeling clings to his skin, creeps into his heart and devours his soul with particular appetite, chewing him and spitting him out like rotten fruit. He’s rotten, decomposed in his core and slowly rotting his way out, until decay consumes his skin and leaves nothing else behind.

He is a shell of which it houses nothing. He is dark matter at the edges of the universe. He is the vacuum of space, the great filter, the emptiness and the abyss. He is nothing. He has nothing.

He feels a weight on him, warm and heavy. His rampant thoughts run to it like a dehydrated man to an oasis, clinging to the contact and the feeling of it against him. The weight is breathing and abstract in shape and curve; a person, one he can’t recognise right now. He doesn’t recognise himself, either. He’s not sure if there is a mirror in front of him, or if he looks like nothingness.

He hears the low hum of a voice talking. It’s not one he recognises, but it sounds nice. It’s smooth and sweet, and he thinks he could listen to it forever, even if he doesn’t understand what’s being said. His head feels too full yet so empty. He feels pressure. Vacuum.

He’s made aware of how hard he’s clenching his hand when it’s pried open and he feels a warm wetness on his fingernails, having drawn blood. He sees his hand, and it causes him to see his arm, and the rest of him curled into a ball as the weight against him breathes. The weight is wearing long, soft sleeves that feels nice against his arms, and whispering sweet-nothings into his ear while stroking his hair. The weight is asking him something.

“No,” He croaks, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. The weight breathes against him, and he tries to copy the pattern.

The weight says something else and kisses his forehead. He thinks he cries, but he’s not sure. It’s bad. Everything is bad.

“I’m sorry,” He tries, hating the way he sounds weak and small. The weight kisses his forehead again.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” The weight says, holding him tight. “You’re okay. I love you. I’m here for you.”

He lets his hand be held, bloody as it is. He stays there for longer than he thinks. The weight is here for him.

The weight is here for him.


End file.
